


you'll be the death of me (in the best way)

by rumpledlinen



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, Genderswap, Happy Ending, Pining, nick is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpledlinen/pseuds/rumpledlinen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick hugs her tight, pressing her face into the juncture of Harry’s shoulder and neck. “I love you, yeah? You’re my best friend. You can always stay with me.” (She sounds like she’s seventeen again, god. Harry just brings that out in her, the I’ll love you until forever and you’re my friend until we die. She’s surprised she hasn’t thought about making Harry her blood sister yet.)</p><p>Harry stills, and then nods. She kicks off her shoes (even out of them she’s nearly as tall as Nick, and Nick towered over half the men she dated before realizing she didn’t want them at all) and pulls off her jumper, finally looking Nick in the eyes. “Thanks,” she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll be the death of me (in the best way)

**Author's Note:**

> a million thanks to jenny [teaboytoaliens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teaboytoaliens/pseuds/teaboytoaliens)for all your help. thank you, darling. 
> 
> title from ingrid michaelson's "the wonderful unknown". 
> 
> this isn't true, obviously. 
> 
> this took entirely too long to finish, but at last, this is canon-compliant, always-girls nick/harry. i should've finished an essay or done any of my reading for school today. oh, well. 
> 
> a note: there is a mention of nick/ofc but there's nothing explicit there.

Three days after the Take Me Home tour ends, Nick opens her door to a well-rested Harry Styles, carrying a bag and wearing giant sunglasses. She’s grinning.

“What,” Nick says, because she is nothing if not verbose in the early afternoon. She leans against her doorframe, just looking at her. “You’re here.” She’s fishmouthing, a bit, but Harry’s here after months of not more than texts. She’s allowed to gape.

“I am!” Harry says. “I had some things to take care of,” and she continues as she comes inside, throwing her bag on the floor and flopping onto the couch, “but now I’m here. To stay.”

“For how long?”

Harry shrugs. She picks at her nails, not properly meeting Nick’s eyes, staring instead at a spot just beyond her. “As long as you’ll have me, I guess.”

Nick frowns. “Don’t you have other people you want to see?” Nick would rather it be her, all the time, but Harry has friends and not-friends and people she fucks. She’s a real pop star, after all.

Harry sits up, running a hand through her hair. She looks perfect, of course. Nick kind of hates her for it, the little bit she can ever hate Harry. “I mean, not right now. You’re more--I’d rather see you.”

Nick nods. She grins, pushing irrational hate and ill-advised want aside. Harry’s here, in her house, and she wants to be there for a long time, it seems. “Of course you can stay.”

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” Harry says. She nods, sitting down and making a show of patting the cushions. “It’s great and I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“No arguments here,” Nick says. She sits next to Harry and after a beat puts her arm around her. Everything feels off, weird, like they’ve been apart for longer than they have. But this is Harry, one of the most important people in Nick’s life. Shut up, she tells her brain.

Harry curls into her, pressing her face against Nick’s shoulder. She seems so tiny, now, so small and meek.

Nick tightens her arm around her shoulders. “You want to talk about anything?”

Harry shrugs. “Not right now,” she mumbles. “Just wanna sit.”

She doesn’t seem so well-rested anymore.

Nick bites her lip. She wants to say a million things, but she’s not sure where she stands, after months and miles and never-ending silence. “You want to cuddle and sleep?” she settles on, because cuddling is safe, cuddling is easy, cuddling is about Harry and not Nick’s weird obsession with her.

Harry sits up, taking the stupid sunglasses off her face. This close, Nick can see the bags under her eyes, the way her mascara’s smeared just a little bit. Her heart hurts just thinking about it. Harry wrinkles her nose. “Couch isn’t big enough.”

Nick rolls her eyes and stands up, grabbing Harry’s wrist. God, she’s lost weight. She’s tiny. “You’re sleeping in my bed. Come on, popstar.”

“I thought I had to sleep on the couch,” Harry says, but there’s finally a hint of amusement in her voice.

Nick pulls back the covers and pointedly ignores the comment. “Do you have pajamas or do you want to borrow something?”

Harry stands in the doorway, fidgeting. “You really don’t mind?”

Nick frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Harry shrugs, looking down at her shoes (they’re strappy heels and are probably absurdly expensive, but they make her legs look amazing). “I’ve been gone for ages.”

“On tour.”

“Yeah, but--”

“None of that.” Nick hugs her tight, pressing her face into the juncture of Harry’s shoulder and neck. “I love you, yeah? You’re my best friend. You can always stay with me.” (She sounds like she’s seventeen again, god. Harry just brings that out in her, the I’ll love you until forever and you’re my friend until we die. She’s surprised she hasn’t thought about making Harry her blood sister yet.)

Harry stills, and then nods. She kicks off her shoes (even out of them she’s nearly as tall as Nick, and Nick towered over half the men she dated before realizing she didn’t want them at all) and pulls off her jumper, finally looking Nick in the eyes. “Thanks,” she says.

Nick smiles and nods toward the bed. “Let’s get you some rest, yeah?”

Harry nods. She looks so, so small, and so, so sad.

Nick curls a hand around her hip and pulls herself so that she’s wrapped around Harry, can feel their heartbeats together.

“Good night,” Harry breathes, already close to sleep.

Nick lies there with her for an hour and a half, just breathing. She can’t sleep; it’s barely three in the afternoon and she’d meant to do the washing, eat a healthy lunch and maybe go to the gym.

Harry sighs in her sleep and pushes herself closer, fingers wrapping around Nick’s wrist.

Nick kisses the back of her head. She smells like hairspray and perfume, something fruity and light Nick can’t place. Something small aches in her chest at how small Harry feels, like Nick’s the only thing holding her together.

(Because Nick is a sap of the highest order, she thinks that this, getting to hold Harry after months of barely seeing her, is better than all of her plans for the weekend could have hoped to be.)

 

“You want me to throw your clothes in with mine?” Nick asks, balancing a laundry bin against her hip.

Harry’s sat at the table, eating a piece of toast and scrolling through something on her phone (Twitter, Nick’s pretty sure, and wants to take the fucking thing out of Harry’s hand). She shakes her head. “Nah, that’s all right. I can do it m’self.” She looks up, grinning wide, and Nick sees a flash of the popstar, the one everyone’s in love with, in it. “And until then I can wear your clothes, yeah?” The fucker.

Nick swallows, and manages to nod in a more-or-less sane fashion. “Of course you can,” and she doesn’t think about Harry in one of her dresses that’s too small for her these days, too short for her absurdly long legs. (She doesn’t think about it, just like she never, ever thinks about kissing Harry, biting her lip, pressing her against a wall and putting her hands on Harry’s hips. It’s for both of their sakes.)

Harry’s smile widens. “Then I’m all set. Thanks, though.” When Nick walks past, Harry squeezes her hip.

This trip (or visit, or whatever Harry thinks it is--and Nick refuses to call it a coming home, even in her mind) may be the death of Nick.

 

“I’ll do your laundry,” Harry mumbles that night.

She’s leaned against Nick, halfway through her third glass of wine, feet tucked under her. They’re watching some inane infomercial that Nick’s staring at and not taking anything in from. She grins, squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “You don’t need to do that, babe.”

Harry shrugs, and stretches. Her jumper rides up and shows a bit of her stomach, the top of her knickers.

Nick’s brain whites out. Jesus. Harry regularly jumps around on stage in short shorts and crop tops, flashes her thigh tattoos and giggles while doing it, but this, this little bit of stomach and lace, is enough to set Nick’s mind on fire.

“I don’t have to,” Harry says, “but I’m not planning on leaving the house longer than an afternoon anytime soon and I figure you’ll kick me out if I just laze about all day.”

Nick kisses the top of her head, pulls her close in something that could be construed as friendly, nothing more. “I would never kick you out,” she says.

Harry pats her hand, and sleepily nuzzles Nick’s collarbone. “Thanks,” she mumbles.

It’s a long moment, long enough that Nick starts to really feel the night (god, she’s getting old); she stands up, slow, and tries to tuck Harry in like Pix does sometimes.

Harry makes a soft sound, reaching out for her.

Nick’s heart does something complicated. She smooths down Harry’s hair, smiling. “You okay, popstar?”

“Don’t wanna sleep ‘lone,” Harry says. She blinks, making the face Nick knows is a trick but has always, always been a sucker for.

It’s not very smart of her, but she whispers, “Do you want to sleep with me?”

Harry grins, looking a bit more alert. “That easy to get you to cave?”

“I’m not caving,” Nick says. She pulls Harry up, halfway dragging her to the room. “I don’t mind. Just get in the goddamn bed.”

Harry smiles, tugs off her jeans and tosses them aside. God. There’s so much leg. She crawls under the covers, looking at Nick, expectant. “You gonna join me?”

And, well. Nick crawls in beside her, kisses Harry’s forehead again. “Now can you sleep?”

Harry doesn’t answer. It takes Nick a moment to realize she’s already out.

 

(When Nick gets back from work the next day, there’re pancakes and coffee waiting for her. Harry’s fresh-faced and showered, wearing a pair of Nick’s joggers and an old, faded t-shirt.

She smiles at Nick. “You were good,” she says.

Nick sits down, and--yep, the laundry’s running. “You’re perfect,” she says, instead of something intelligent.

Harry blushes, blushes, looking down at her lap. “Couldn’t sleep,” she mumbles, “not after you got up.”

“Sorry,” Nick says. “I can start getting ready in the dark, if you want.”

“Nah, that’s not what I meant,” she says. She visibly swallows, and grins. “You were good, though.” She nudges Nick’s calf with her toe. “Accept my compliment, you twat.”

Nick groans. “Thank you, Harriet. I’m forever indebted you for saying kind things about me. How am I gonna repay you?” She raises an eyebrow.

Harry, surprisingly, doesn’t respond. She just shrugs, pulling the t-shirt up over her shoulder and taking a bite of pancake off of Nick’s plate.

Nick nudges her back, frowning. She doesn’t know what to do with this weird, uncertain thing she and Harry have going on. She feels bad, is the thing, bad about having such a stupid thing for her best friend, not being able to be fucking normal around her.

“You okay?” Nick asks, because she can’t keep being this arsehole.

Harry smiles at her, shrugging. “Just,” and she pauses, long enough that Nick really does get worried. “I’m just glad I can stay here, you know? Feels safe.”

Nick’s chest feels warm at that, but she just nods. “You’re always safe here, darling.” She reaches out to thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. “You can always come here.”

Harry opens her mouth, but doesn’t say anything. She just shakes her head, sharp enough that she winces. “Thanks,” she finally mumbles, still staring down at her fucking pancakes.

Nick doesn’t say anything else. She just drinks her coffee, letting the day settle in around her.

 

After work on a Tuesday morning, Nick takes Puppy out into her backyard and is only mildly surprised to see Harry out there, reading a book, cigarette in other hand.

Nick sits next to her, putting her legs up on the rickety table she has out here. (She should really redo some of this, she thinks. She’s got the money, now.) “Didn’t know you smoked.” It stings, a little, when there are things about Harry she doesn’t know (even as they become more and more common these days).

Harry starts. “I don’t,” she says, wrinkling her nose and dropping it, putting it out with her shoe. “Thought it might help, though.”

“Help with what?” Nick says it as gentle as she can, afraid to be anything less for fear Harry’ll go back into herself and not explain it to her.

Harry breathes, putting her phone to the side and running her hands through her hair, tying it in a knot. “I love being famous,” she starts.

Nick raises her eyebrows. That wasn’t what she was expecting. “But?” she offers.

Harry shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know if I love being… famous.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to be Harry Styles, Member of One Direction.” She presses her lips together. “I want to be Harry, you know? I want to make music and I want people to listen, yeah, but I don’t want people following me and I don’t want to have to hide who I am and I want--god.” She closes her eyes. “I want to be able to date someone and it to not be on the fucking Daily Mail. You know?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. She nudges Harry’s shoulder with her toe. Her heart beats a little bit with who do you want? but this isn’t about her and her curiosity, this is about Harry. “I get it.”

Harry frowns. “I’m selfish, though.”

“Nah, you’re not.”

Harry laughs, though it sounds hollow. “I asked for this, didn’t I?”

“You tried out for a television program when you were sixteen,” Nick says. She suspects she’s only telling Harry what she already knows, but if it’s what Harry needs to hear she’s happy to repeat. She shoves Harry over, pulling her in for a cuddle. “You didn’t ask for people to follow you and go through your rubbish, or any of the weird shit.”

Harry nods, still not looking at Nick. “I had to pretend to go home with Louis so you didn’t get papped like mad,” she says, finally halfway looking at Nick. “I just wanted to spend time with you--and we’re not even--” She breaks off, shaking her head. “And she got shit for it, not that she minded going off on them.”

Nick closes her eyes. She doesn’t know what to do with this, this raw part of Harry that’s hurting. Nick complains about getting followed and it’s only happened a few times when she was by herself; Harry has it happen all the time, and she’s so young.

“You’re not selfish for wanting to get out of it for a little bit,” Nick says. “Not at all.”

“I love the spotlight,” Harry says, pleading. She sounds like she’s barely listening to Nick, voice fast and trembling. “I just want a break, sometimes. I want people to stop treating me like I’m--”

“Infallible?” Nick asks.

Harry shrugs. “Important.”

“You are--”

“I don’t mean important,” Harry says, a grumble in her voice. “I just--I don’t want it to make the news when I go to the grocery store.”

Nick scoots her chair over so that she’s close enough to drape her legs over Harry’s lap and give her an awkward, one-armed hug. “But it’s so interesting,” she says, nodding sagely. “What brand  detergent does the famous Harry Styles use for her popstar clothes?” Nick kisses her forehead. “You always smell so nice, the people just want to be like you.”

Harry sniffles a little bit (always emotional, her, though Nick can’t really judge her for it) and laces her fingers through Nick’s. “Thanks,” she says, quiet.

“Anytime,” Nick says back, just as soft.

 

That night, Harry takes her blankets off of the couch. She gathers them up and drops them at the foot of Nick’s bed, breathing all shaky. “I don’t want to presume,” she says, soft, “but we’ve been sleeping together for a week now, and--”

Nick holds out her arms from where she’s at, wiping the last of her makeup off her cheeks. “God, will you stop being so careful?” she asks. “You’re gonna make me think I’m the devil, the way you treat me.”

Harry wrinkles her nose. “I don’t mean it like that,” and there’s less tension in her shoulders now, when she flops onto Nick’s bed. “I just want you to know. You don’t have--”

“Harriet Anne-Marie Styles,” Nick says (Harry giggles), “if you say you don’t have to one more time I’m going to hurt you. I know I don’t have to.” She gets up, hair falling out of her loose knot, and shoves Harry over. “I care about you, y’idiot. Quit complaining about it.”

Harry moves so that her head’s rested against Nick’s leg. “I know,” she says.

“Do you?” Nick asks, stroking the back of Harry’s neck.

She doesn’t get an answer for a while.

 

“I want to go out,” Harry says, on a Friday night.

Nick had been planning on eating takeaway and watching Great British Bake-Off in her pyjamas, but she shrugs and nods. “Sure, where?”

“Anywhere,” Harry says. She’s got that look in her eyes, the one Nick knows well; Harry’s going to get absolutely plastered and it’s going to be on Nick to take care of her.

Nick’d never admit it, but a handsy, sleepy Harry Styles is one of her favorite Harry Styles’.

She gets up and nods, going to her room. “You want to borrow something, then?”

Harry nods, following right behind he.

 

They end up at a club that Harry suggests, and it’s absolutely packed. Nick doesn’t mind; she kind of prefers it this way, when she can’t hear her own thoughts for how crowded it is.

They attract a crowd of their own at first (because ⅕ of One Direction is always going to attract a crowd) but that dissipates after a while, and then it’s just Nick and Harry, drinking extraordinarily fruity drinks and dancing with each other and no one else.

“I love you,” Nick says when she can feel the bass in her pulse. She means it, too, means it in all the ways she can. She’s probably drunk, she figures.

Harry grins at her, cherry-red lips and dark hair wild around her face, and pulls her in for a sloppy kiss against her cheek. “I love you, too!” she shouts, loud enough that Nick can almost hear it.

Nick grins back, can’t help it. She can barely keep from kissing her but she manages, settling for dancing close enough that they could touch if they wanted (if Harry wanted, really, because Nick wants more than anything).

 

“I think I might be drunk,” Harry whispers in a voice louder than when she speaks. She giggles, and they trail off until she’s just staring out the window.

Nick snorts, and can’t stop herself, holding a hand to her mouth. The cab driver looks at them and shakes his head. She frowns.

“Fuck you,” Harry says, glaring at him. “And put the thing up, please.”

The driver shrugs and puts up the divider, not saying a word.

Harry turns to her. “Thanks for taking me out,” she says, though it comes out  in a rush, words spilling over each other.

Nick wrinkles her nose. “You don’t need to thank me,” she says. “You wanted to go out, so we went out.”

“Are we going home?” Harry asks, turning toward her.

Home. “Yeah,” Nick says, and this time she doesn’t stop herself from kissing her.

Harry tastes like fruit and kind of like alcohol, and she makes this soft little whimper into Nick’s mouth. “Oh,” she breathes out, pulling Nick in close.

Nick bites her bottom lip, pulling her in by the hip until Harry’s basically straddling her. “I,” Nick gasps, leaning her head back against the headrest, and then the car stops, sudden.

Fuck. They’re in a cab. Fuck. “You,” Nick says, but Harry’s already gotten the picture, has gotten off of Nick and is straightening out her dress.

They stare at each other for a long moment, not saying anything, and then--

“When we go in, can we finish?” Harry asks, sounding almost unsure.

The want settles back into Nick’s body, and she nods, shivering with it. “Yeah, please,” she gets out.

Harry grins. She pays the cab driver and they stumble out together, holding hands. It’s early enough that there aren’t any paps, and anyway they get inside quickly enough that Nick doesn’t care. (Or maybe it’s Harry, holding her tight and managing to run in heels that look like they could impale someone, and the promise of more that makes Nick not care. Maybe it’s that.)

They go in together, Harry leading the way and tossing her jacket off to the side. She kicks off her heels and adds them to the pile of her things sat in the corner of the room.

Nick is drunk and possibly about to hook up with Harry Styles, and she can’t think about how much it looks like Harry lives with her, proper-like.

“So,” Harry says, turning around. She bites her lip. “I--”

Nick walks forward and kisses her, hard. She gets her hands on either side of Harry’s face, pulling her in close. She’s taller in her heels but she steps out of them and then they’re the same height, kissing hard enough that Nick’s sure her mouth is going to be sore later.

Harry’s panting when she pulls away, hands resting at Nick’s waist, rubbing circles with her thumbs there. “I, fuck,” she breathes. “I want…”

“What?” Nick asks. She kisses down Harry’s neck, sucking lightly.

“Jesus Christ, Nick,” Harry gets out. “I want you, I want--fuck, can I go down on you?”

Nick’s pretty sure her brain short-circuits, and everything goes white, and a million other cliches. “Yes,” she says (more of a breathy plea, but) and pulls Harry to her room, letting herself fall back on her bed.

Harry crawls over her and unzips her dress, pulling her arms through the straps. “You’re so hot,” she breathes. “I just--fuck, can you take off your dress?”

Nick smirks, but she feels overwhelmed. Not quite drunk anymore, though, which is good; she’s not worried she’ll regret it. She slips her dress over her head (she has to do some very undignified wiggling to get completely out of it, but if the wide-eyed look on Harry’s face is any indication she’s not going to be mocked about it) and lies back down.

“I,” Harry says, and opens and closes her mouth a few times. “Jesus,” and then she’s kissing Nick, hard. They’re both in their pants and that makes it hotter, somehow; Nick’s all for getting naked as soon as possible but she can feel Harry, wet, through the lace. She arches her back at the thought of getting Harry off in her knickers, eyes falling shut.

“God,” Harry says, “you’re so--I’ve wanted--”

Nick can’t do that, can’t hear anything about Harry wanting anything. “Fuck me,” she breathes. It’s corny and sounds like something out of a terrible porn, but it seems to get the message across to Harry, who goes quiet and nods, quick.

Harry unclasps Nick’s bra while she’s biting at her neck, sucking hard enough that there might be a mark tomorrow--and Nick whines at the thought, the idea of there being a reminder, something that means Harry won’t be able to write this off when she’s not drunk anymore.

Harry slides a finger into her, beneath the knickers, and Nick moans, soft.

“You’re so hot,” Harry whispers again, “fuck, your legs and--everything, god--” She’s babbling, Nick can tell, and it’s stupidly hot.

Harry gets a thumb on her clit and her other hand in Nick’s hair, pulling her up until she’s sitting to fuck into her properly, kissing just behind Nick’s ear.

It’s too soon before Nick’s coming, clenching around Harry’s fingers, and she falls backward onto the bed, eyes shut and chest heaving.

Harry crawls off of her. Nick opens her eyes to Harry licking her fingers clean. She closes them again, groaning. “You can’t do that,” she says.

Harry shrugs. “No one else has ever had a problem with it,” she says, prim.

Nick glares. “No talking about exes post-coitally, I thought that was a well-known rule.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, smiling. She’s far too chipper for someone who should be insanely turned on, Nick thinks.

She has to fix it.

She sits up and kisses Harry, once, unclasping her bra and sliding down her stomach to her knickers. “I’m going to eat you out through your pants,” she whispers, “and make you come hard enough you won’t be able to wear them tomorrow.”

Harry whimpers.

Nick smiles.

 

She wakes up in the morning, alone. She listens as hard as she can but there’s not the sound of running water, or someone making tea.

She’s alone.

She bites her lip against the stab of hurt in her chest, and closes her eyes. She’s got a fucking splitting headache and Harry’s nowhere to be seen. She may have fucked up the most important relationship in her life for one lousy shag (well, not lousy at all--brilliant, really, but lousy out of principle).

She listens for the sound of Harry in the flat, doing something; she sits in absolute silence for long enough that she gets worried about Puppy, who has apparently fallen mute as well.

Great. She’s absolutely fucking alone, now. Maybe Harry stole her dog, too.

She gets out of bed and yanks on a shirt, foregoing trousers to pad out into her living room. Everything’s neater than she remembers; she’s pretty sure at least some of her clothes had gotten lost on the way to the bedroom, though she can’t be sure. She doesn’t remember those details, only the HarryHarryHarry that she’s wanted for so long.

She groans and pulls her hair into a knot, shaking her head. Right. Harry’s apparently fucked off, and she’s left to pick up the pieces. It hurts like a motherfucker (Nick’s not too proud to admit that) but she can get past it.

She goes into her kitchen. Puppy’s outside, running around and barking at something.

She takes Puppy for a walk and listens to the loudest, angriest music that’s as far away from the indie shit Harry put on her fucking phone she can get.

 

She calls Harry at four in the afternoon. She’s not sad anymore, just angry. She jabs the buttons with her fingers hard enough that it kind of hurts.

“Nick?” Harry answers.

Nick doesn’t notice the sad lilt to her voice. Absolutely not, and if she did she wouldn’t do a stupid thing like fall for it. “You’re an arse,” she says.

“I--”

“You know I don’t like waking up alone,” Nick continues, picking at a thread in her jeans. “You could have--fuck, Haz, you could have said something.”

“Like what?” Harry asks, small. She sounds tired. Nick… doesn’t really give a shit.

“‘I regretted it but we’re both adults and can talk about it’, for a start,” Nick snaps.

Harry laughs. “Fuck off, you know that’s not what I was going to say.”

“Contrary to what you apparently think, I can’t actually read your mind!” and now Nick’s shouting. Fan-fucking-tastic. At least she’s not in public, the last thing she needs is anyone to see this.

Harry’s voice is shaking a little bit when she answers. “Can we talk about this somewhere, please?”

Despite herself, Nick feels bad. “Of course.”

 

They meet at a park near Nick’s house. Harry wears an awful floppy hat and scarf that looks annoyingly good on her.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you,” Harry says, which is an odd way to start the I don’t want to be friends now that we’ve shagged conversation, Nick feels.

“Okay,” she says, because she can’t think of anything else.

Harry twists her hands together. “I’m leaving for tour soon,” she says.

Nick shrugs. “You just got off of tour.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry presses her lips together. “But--in a couple of months I’ll be gone again. And this is one of the bigger breaks, generally it’s not so--”

“I know, Haz,” and Nick feels bad for interrupting but Harry was talking so fast it was like she was getting herself into a fit. “What about it?”

Harry closes her eyes, and finally looks Nick in the eye. “I really, really liked last night,” she says, “and I knew that if I stayed I’d want to do it again.”

Nick thinks she’s beginning to understand, but she wants Harry to explain it. No more assuming. “So?” she asks.

“I can’t start a--fuck, an anything when I’m going to leave in a couple of months!” Harry half-shouts.

“Why not?” Nick asks. “It could be just sex, you know.”

Harry frowns  little bit. “You could do just sex?” she asks. Her voice is weird, higher than it should be but like it’s not on purpose.

Nick swallows, and gets halfway through a nod before she lets out a rush of air and shakes her head. “No,” she says, honest, “I don’t think I could, if you’re asking.”

Harry bites her lip, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “And why’s that?”

“Ugh,” Nick says, wrinkling her nose, “can we just say that we know what each other are saying, and not actually say it?”

“Nope,” Harry says, grinning. “I have feelings for you, Nick. And you know how fragile my feelings are, if you don’t say it back I’ll probably cry.”

“I thought you were leaving in a month,” Nick grumbles, but it’s mostly in jest. “And of course I have feelings for you. Gross feelings. You’re infuriatingly adorable.”

Harry smiles.

“Now, will you please come back?” Nick asks, standing up and stretching her back. “Puppy missed you terribly this morning.”

Harry bites her lip. Now that Nick knows Harry wants to kiss her, too, it’s very distracting but she perseveres. “I’m sorry I left,” she says.

Nick sighs, and pulls her into a hug. Someone’ll probably get pictures, but she doesn’t care right now. “I know,” she says.

Harry’s voice is small. “I didn’t want you to feel like I’d abandoned you,” she mumbles.

“I did consider drinking half a bottle of vodka and cursing your name, but I thought talking to you might be more productive.”

Harry laughs, but it’s a wet sound.

Nick pulls back and Harry wipes at her eyes. “Now, none of that,” Nick says, pulling her hand down and wiping at Harry’s eyes for her. “None of this crying business, all right?” She keeps her voice low, soothing, as they walk to Nick’s car.

Harry puts her feet up on the dash and smiles over at Nick, tentative.

Nick smiles back.

They drive back in relative silence. Nick assumes Harry’s doing as she is, thinking about--well.

I have feelings for you. God. Harry’s gonna end up killing Nick, one of these days.

Harry lets them both in (she’d gotten hold of a key Nick had originally intended for Alexa, but she likes Harry having it better) and they stand in the door for a minute, just looking at each other.

“So,” Nick starts.

Harry steps forward and kisses her.

It’s a lot gentler than last night, if Nick’s remembering correctly. Harry kisses her like she’s made of glass, like if she holds too tightly Nick will fall apart.

Harry might not be entirely wrong.

Nick slides her hands around Harry’s waist and kisses her properly, mouth opening on a gasp. Harry bites her lip, soft, almost sweet.

This is--a lot. It’s a lot. Nick pulls back, resting her forehead against Harry’s, eyes shutting.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks. Her voice is ragged like Nick’s only heard her after too many pints, and--last night, of course. “Can I kiss you?”

Oh god, Nick thinks, and I should say no, but this is Harry and they’re both sober. What about you leaving, she wants to say, but instead she kisses Harry, harder this time, hands tightening on Harry’s hips.

Harry walks them backwards, pressing Nick up against a wall. Nick lets out a shocked gasp, head hitting the wall with a small thud.

Harry bites at her neck, and she’s not forcing Nick against the wall so much as holding her there. Nick doesn’t mind, really. She doesn’t want to move, not with Harry sucking marks into her neck just below her collar and running her fingers down Nick’s side.

“Fuck,” Nick breathes.

Harry pulls back, pupils blown. She swallows, visibly. It’s incredibly distracting. “You went down on me last night,” she says, and yeah, her voice is husky and dark and so, so hot. “Mind if I return the favor?”

Nick’s knees actually turn to jelly. It’s only because Harry’s so close that she manages to remain standing. She nods, quickly enough that it’s undignified, but Harry Styles is about to go down on her, so she doesn’t really mind the humiliation.

Harry smiles, something like a smirk at the edge of it. “Good,” she says, and leads Nick into her bedroom.

 

Harry falls asleep quickly after they finish, but Nick’s not so tired. She stares at Harry, who’s breathing peacefully and lying perfectly still.

Nick’s heart hurts.

She pokes Harry.

Harry blinks, and smiles, a sleepy thing. “What’s up?” she breathes. “Was sleeping.”

“I know,” Nick says, “I just.” She pauses, bites her lip. “What are we doing?”

“Napping, I thought, though I don’t think anyone’s taught you the finer points of it,” Harry says, grinning a little.

Nick doesn’t feel very much like laughing, though. She shakes her head. “Really,” she insists. “What are we doing?”

“Well, I fancy you and you fancy me,” Harry says.

Nick’s breath catches in her throat.

“But I’m leaving and I don’t want to make you wait around for me, you know?” Harry looks more awake now, leaning up on one arm and looking at Nick, imploring.

A sick feeling starts in Nick’s stomach. “You don’t want us to, like.” She doesn’t finish the sentence; she doesn’t know what she’d say, anyway.

Harry pulls the covers up tighter around her and shakes her head. “I don’t think it would be the best idea, no.”

“That’s not a real answer.” She doesn’t want to, Nick thinks, but it doesn’t sound like, that, it sounds like something Nick doesn’t know how to unpack. She breathes out.

Harry shrugs. “It’s the only one I can give.”

“Okay.” Nick rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “This does make us lying naked in bed together kind of a problem.”

“This is why I didn’t want to talk about it,” Harry says, also rolling onto her back.

Nick looks at her, studies her profile.

Harry looks back at her. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

“You, too.”

It feels like more, like a confession of something Nick doesn’t know how to name. She rolls over and kisses Harry, once, a chaste kiss.

When she pulls back, Harry’s lip is trembling.

“This isn’t you leaving me, is it?” Nick asks. “I mean, not really?”

Harry shakes her head, reaches out to cup Nick’s face. “I couldn’t do that if I tried.”

Nick smiles.

 

As soon as Nick gets proper used to Harry being there, she leaves.

She goes to LA for a while, hangs out with people and texts Nick minimally. Nick suspects Harry’s avoiding her. She doesn’t really blame her for it; neither of them have been very good at denying themselves anything, and they’d nearly hooked up twice more in the time that Harry had stayed.

Nick’s still excited, though, and pleased. She doesn’t know why but she feels like this is something; if their only reason to not be together is Harry’s tour, then--maybe sometime, later, they can do it properly.

The thought fills Nick with a dread she can’t place, but she gets that way about everything. This is Harry. This is important.

Harry doesn’t text much while she’s away. She updates her Instagram like a madwoman, though, and Nick keeps up with her through there. Every time she sees a new picture from Harry, she gets this ache in her chest that she has to stamp down, but things are good. They’re good.

(She’s dreamed about the two nights they fucked more times than she can count, but she’s fine.)

It’s not until three in the morning on a Tuesday, when Nick’s maudlin and a little bit drunk, that she calls Harry.

“Mmph,” Harry says instead of an answer. “Nick, this better be important.”

“Do you want to fuck other people?” Nick asks, biting her thumbnail.

There’s a long pause, and then, “What?” Harry asks.

Nick groans. “You. Do you want to fuck other people? Is that why you didn’t want us to date?”

“I told you, it’s not that I didn’t want, it’s--”

“I know,” Nick interrupts. Her heart is racing. “I just want to know.”

Harry doesn’t answer for long enough that Nick starts to get worried she’s fallen asleep. Finally, “That’s part of it,” Harry answers.

Enigmatic asshole.

Nick nods, though Harry can’t see her. “Good to know,” she says. “Boy, would you look at the time. I’ve got to go.”

“Nick--”

“Goodbye, Hazza,” Nick says, and hangs up.

She feels stupidly close to tears, and presses the palms of her hands against her eyes. Stupid. She shouldn’t have called, shouldn’t have asked.

And yet.

She falls asleep thinking about Harry, sweet, beautiful Harry, having sex with everyone except Nick.

 

Tour starts, and Nick doesn’t talk to Harry. She’s got a thousand (eleven) texts in her phone, all started, but she doesn’t know what to say. It gets harder, as the weeks go on, because I don’t want to sleep with anyone else isn’t a good conversation starter and she doesn’t want to start with anything else.

Annoyingly, she still has it in the back of her mind that Harry’s going to text her first, that Harry’s going to call her up in the middle of the night and say I fucked it all up please be with me.

Nick would give in, of course. She’s nothing if not magnanimous.

 

Harry texts her, of fucking course, while Nick’s in the middle of doing her show. It’s a simple hey but there are a dozen x’s and Nick can’t keep the stupid grin off her face.

“Aw, has our Nicky got someone on her mind?” Finchy asks when they’re playing a Lady Gaga song.

Nick presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Just a friend,” she says.

She pretends she doesn’t see Fiona mouth Harry behind her back, and doesn’t mention it as the song fades and she has to slip back into chatter.

She doesn’t reply until after the show, because she’s smooth. hey there x

Harry calls her when Nick’s getting into her car. She shouldn’t answer, because responsibility is important, but it’s Harry, and what’s more important than that?

“Yeah?” she answers.

Harry laughs. Even over the phone, it’s lovely and husky. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Driving,” Nick says. She keeps her eyes on the road, doesn’t look at her phone. She can’t see Harry, anyway. “What’re you up to, popstar?”

“I just wanted to talk,” Harry says.

Nick frowns. “About anything in particular?”

“Well--” and Harry breaks into a bit of a rant, about tour and sleep and the band itself. She goes on until Nick gets home, and it’s only when she hears Puppy that she quiets down.

“I’ve been going on for ages,” she says, mournful. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Shut it,” Nick says. “You wanted to talk, so I let you. Do you feel any better?”

“A bit,” Harry says, every bit like a petulant child.

“I’m glad,” Nick says. “Is there anything else on your mind?” Me? she doesn’t add, though she has to bite her tongue.

Harry’s quiet for long enough that Nick’s sure they’re both thinking the same thing. Her heart starts to beat a little bit faster, despite herself.

“Nah,” Harry says, after the pause has stretched to its limit. “I’m good.”

“All right, Hazza,” Nick says. “I’ve got to run, but call me anytime, yeah?”

“What if you’re on the show?” Harry asks. There’s a bit of a laugh in her voice; not enough for Nick not to worry, but enough that she feels all right hanging up.

Nick shrugs, though Harry can’t see her. “Text me first, then, and if it’s an emergency I’ll beg off.”

“I--” Harry breaks off for a second. “You’d do that for me? Go off air just to talk?”

“If you needed me,” Nick says.

“Oh,” comes Harry’s response, a little bit choked.

I love you, Nick thinks, and she knows how she means it--in every way, in the I want to marry you and share a house and get a mortgage with you as well as all the others.

Because she is a functioning adult, she presses it out of her mind and focuses on Harry. “Anytime, love,” she says, voice going a bit soft at the end.

Harry breathes. “I--” she starts, and breaks off again. “I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”

“Ring me anytime,” Nick says again, for good measure. It’s important for Harry to have someone to talk to, after all.

Harry hangs up first and Nick sits, heavily, on her couch. Puppy jumps up onto her lap and she can barely focus on petting her.

Love. She’s pretty sure she’s in love with Harry Styles.

What a fucking disaster.

 

Harry doesn’t call her again, until she’s in bed with a lovely leggy blonde named Amy. Nick’s hovered over her when her phone goes off, Still Into You because she’s a proper idiot. Nick groans.

Amy laughs, looking over at her phone. “You need to get that?”

Nick swallows, and she promised Harry but--Amy’s here, and lovely, and Nick’s drunk enough she might let something slip. “Nah,” she says, and reaches over to grab it, thumbing it off.

Amy bites her lip and rolls them so she’s straddling Nick, leaning down to unhook her bra. “Good,” she whispers, kissing her way down Nick’s chest.

Nick moans, and gasps, and doesn’t think about Harry at all.

 

Amy leaves before Nick wakes up, and when she finally gets out of bed it’s with a lump of sadness in her heart.

She looks over at her fault, still dark, and with a big sigh turns it back on.

She’s got a voicemail and two texts from Harry.

hey there, you up? xx

i thought you’d always answer :(

She closes her eyes, and she’s got a splitting headache but she deserves it, probably, after ignoring Harry for a shag.

She listens to the voicemail, chewing on her thumb.

“Hey, Nick,” comes Harry’s voice, slightly slurred. “I thought you were gonna answer. Sorry. You’re so important to me, you know that?” She’s laughing, and in the background there’s the sound of breaking glass. “People are stupid. So are you. I like you anyway, though.” There’s a hitch in her breath, and Nick wonders idly if she’s crying. Then it happens again, and Nick knows. “I’m the most pathetic kind of drunk,” she says, and Nick can almost see her wiping her tears away. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I just--fuck. Don’t call back. It’s okay.” Then a click.

Nick closes her eyes, head dropping forward.

Because she’s an idiot with a terrible, terrible hangover, she doesn’t call back.

Amy’s left a nice little note on her counter--

Nick--

So nice to meet you, sorry, had to run to work.

Amy x

There’s no number. Which is just as well; Nick’s not sure she would’ve used it, anyway.

She runs a hand through her quiff, and sets the coffee to brew.

 

She calls Harry, that night.

She gets voicemail, which is what she deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “God, Haz, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Shit was going on and I… am a terrible friend. Forgive me?”

She falls asleep before she gets a response, but when she wakes up it’s to a text that says, it’s okay, I’m not mad. love you.

She swallows, and it’s four in the morning, far, far too early for Harry and her--everything.

 

The phone’s incessant ringing is what wakes Nick up, a week and a half later.

“Mmph,” she says when she’s got it between her cheek and shoulder. It’s some god-awful time in the morning she doesn’t even want to think about; she talks with her eyes closed.

“Hiya, can you do me a favor?” It’s Harry. Nick’s not heard her like this in ages; their conversations have always been public, and all Harry’s been able to say are things like I’m loving the tour and gotta go, see you soon!. Even this, small and unimportant as it is, makes Nick’s heart beat faster.

She groans, opening her eyes and staring at the streetlamp outside. “What’s it, then?”

“Come pick me up?”

Nick blinks. Oh. “You’re here?” She looks at the clock. “At two in the morning?”

“Plane landed a bit ago, signed some autographs and now I’m hiding with Zayn. Can you?”

Nick grins, all traces of her exhaustion gone. “Be right there, darling.”

 

She wears a bandana Harry’d left at her house, because Harry smiles when she does that, and she pulls out her phone. “Hi there, love, where are you?”

“I’m in the loo with Zayn, be right out,” Harry’s voice comes, tinny. Nick stands in the middle of the mostly-empty airport, biting her lip.

Harry comes out, and grins wide enough it has to hurt. She’s carrying a bag bigger than her and Nick rolls her eyes, grabbing it and sliding a hand around her waist.

Harry frowns at her.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Nick explains, letting Harry lean against her. “And I’m your chauffeur, so.”

Harry laughs. “Thanks, Nick.”

She nods, and leads her out of the airport, both of their heads down, away from the last lingering paps.

Harry tucks herself into Nick’s car and curls up on the seat. Like this, she’s not the Harry Styles the world knows and loves; she’s a tall girl in a grey jumper and slipper socks that Nick’s pretty sure were stolen from her to begin with. She chews her thumb.

“I missed you,” is Nick’s brilliant opening line.

She’s met with a smile and silence.

Nick goes quiet too. The drive back feels a lot longer than before; she has Harry but it doesn’t feel like she has Harry, not like before, not like Valentine’s Day (and every holiday, for years and years. She hasn’t felt this nervous in ages).  

Harry lets them in, pulling a key out of her pocket. Nick doesn’t know how she manages to get her hand in there, her trousers are so tight.

Even her thoughts about Harry feel tired, listless. She’s so, so tired.

“You can sleep on the couch,” Nick says, dropping Harry’s bag next to it. She’d thought--but she’ll bring Puppy to sleep with her (until the traitor inevitably leaves her side to go cuddle with Hazza). “I’ll get you some--”

“I missed you too,” Harry says. They’re the first real words she’s spoken and she says them with her arms crossed protectively against her, eyes wide. “I just--Nick.”

There it is. Whatever confirmation Nick was waiting for, the knowledge that Harry hadn’t forgotten--there it is.

Nick smiles, and holds out her arms.

“You’re smaller,” Harry says, burying her face in Nick’s hair. “I don’t like it. Get tall again.”

“I’m afraid it’s not me, babe.” Nick smiles, though, holding her as tight as possible. She could fall into Harry and merge with her, become one person. She misses when it felt like she and Harry were two halves of a person, were the beginning and end of a song that didn’t need a middle.

(Maybe the break wasn’t so sudden.)

“‘m not growing,” Harry says. “I’m staying exactly the same.”

Nick has a million things she could say to that, but it’s a conversation for another day, another life--or at least until they’ve both gotten some rest. “Let’s get you to bed,” she says, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. She’s always taken aback at how very fragile Harry seems, like a baby bird just needing to be held.

“I don’t like the couch,” Harry says. “Too lumpy.”

Nick doesn’t call her on the lie. “All right, love.” She kisses Harry’s forehead. (She smells of lavender and apples. God, Nick never could forget anything about her.) “We’ll sleep in mine.”

“I don’t have to leave early,” Harry says, already falling asleep against Nick. “Can have breakfast.”

“I’ve got work.”

“After.”

Nick smiles, tightens her arm. “After,” she says. It’s a promise.

 

“How long are you going to stay?” Nick asks, as casually as she can manage, over a breakfast of eggs and toast. (Harry, apparently, fell in love with scrambled eggs in America. Nick’s not entirely sold, but she’ll do this for her.)

Harry shrugs. “I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

“I wasn’t saying that.” Nick kicks her, gentle, under the table. “I just want to know.”

She smiles into her mug of tea. “I dunno,” Harry says. “A while, maybe? I just want to be alone, but with you.” Her face is serious, like she’s trying to say more than just what she’s saying.

“I’m flattered,” Nick says, trying to lighten the mood.

Harry bites her lip, and goes back to eating.

(She knows, she knows what Harry wants and she wants it too but she’s terrified of what’ll happen if she lets herself kiss Harry again, what she might say or want.

Nick’s always been a coward.)

 

Nick gets back to the sound of the shower running. She pauses, tossing her keys onto the table. It takes her a solid five seconds to remember that Harry’s staying with her (staying with her, god), and then she relaxes, heart slowing down.

Puppy runs up to her and whines, jumping on her legs. She’s got one of Harry’s scarves tied in a bow around her neck; there’s a note attached that says I’ve not forgotten about breakfast!!! xx.

Nick laughs, shaking her head. She takes off her jacket and t-shirt, lying down on the couch. She’s so tired; the show was a lot for her to handle. Harry Styles is back in town, she’d wanted to say, back in my bed and we didn’t fuck but we could have, probably, I haven’t asked but I think she’d be down. I think I’m in love with her, proper scary love, but she shuts that thought down as soon as it’s out.

 

She must fall asleep, because it’s a wet kiss on her cheek that shocks her out of it. She starts, heart racing all over again.

Harry’s sitting on the coffee table, holding a tray of what look and smell like banana nut muffins. She’s wearing a t-shirt of Nick’s, an old N*Sync one she hadn’t remembered she owned.

“You’re wonderful,” Nick says, “stay here forever.” She winces inwardly but decides the best thing to do is roll with it, she grabs one and starts eating, staring at it so she can pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened or been said.

It takes a moment, but Harry starts talking.

“So it’s not as easy to sleep in your bed if you’re not there.”

“It’s not just me,” Nick says. “It’s aces to sleep with someone else, but not by yourself.” She doesn’t say I slept with your t-shirt you probably don’t remember leaving here for weeks because I couldn’t sleep without you.

Harry nods. She sets the plate down, picks at a muffin.

This is it, Nick thinks. She steels herself.

“We need to talk,” Harry says. The words sound foreign coming out of her mouth.

Nick knows that they do, but she also knows that Harry’s wearing her t-shirt and she made her muffins and she wants to hold onto this illusion for just a little bit longer.

So she kisses her.

It’s not like their kisses before; there’s no sense of goodbye in this. They’re not drunk, or pretending to be. It’s not a prelude.

It’s just a kiss.

After a moment, Harry reaches up to press a hand against Nick’s neck, pull her closer. Nick nearly topples off the couch and laughs, shaking her head and pulling Harry to her instead.

Harry swings a leg over Nick’s hips and opens her mouth, like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.

Nick waits. She’s not going to do anything Harry might not want.

It takes another long minute of Harry just looking, but she kisses her, hard and messy. This one--it’s all their kisses mixed together, want and regret and a future. Harry’s fingernails bite into Nick’s shoulders and she doesn’t mind, needs Harry closer, all of her.

Harry’s panting when she pulls away to rest her head on Nick’s chest. “Shit,” she says.

With that word, all the regret comes crashing down. Nick breathes out. “I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Harry mumbles. She shifts so she’s pressed against Nick’s back, arm wrapped around her waist. “Are you really sorry?”

Nick laces their fingers together and kisses Harry’s knuckles. She can feel Harry’s heartbeat, just a touch too fast, against her. She shakes her head. “Nah,” she says. “Not at all.”

They need to talk; Nick knows they need to really sit down and talk. But right now, she lets herself be held.

 

Nick wakes up to Puppy’s yapping. She frowns, running a hand through her hair. “Haz?” she shouts. She stands up, cracking her back. “Popstar, where’d you go?”

Harry doesn’t answer, but soft humming comes from the garden. Nick sighs, pulling on a sweater (she’s pretty sure it’s the one Harry came home in) on over her vest.

She lets Puppy out and leans against the door.

Harry doesn’t look at her. She’s fiddling with her phone and humming Strong.

“You want to talk?” Nick asks. It’s possible that by asking she’s fucking this, whatever it is, up, but she knows she can’t let it go on like this. She and Harry can’t keep dancing around each other, kissing and fucking instead of having a conversation like normal adults.

Harry breathes out, and finally meets Nick’s eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “I think we should.”

Nick pulls up a chair and pulls her knees to her chest, staring at the table. “So,” she starts.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

And. That’s. “Oh,” Nick says.

Harry nods. She’s staring at Nick’s knee. It’s all a lot. “I know that sucks, but--I’m trying, you know, to be honest. I didn’t want to fuck anyone while I was on tour, not really. I just wanted to talk to you, all the time.” Harry closes her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “This is going to sound like the stupidest fucking--but things don’t mean the same thing that they do when I’m with you.”

Nick swallows. “Oh,” she says.

Harry smiles. It’s sweet and sad. “Yeah,” she says. She stands up. “Is that all you have to say?” She brushes invisible crumbs off her legs, her shorts that leave most of her bare. God. She’s so fucking beautiful.

I love you too, Nick thinks, but the words stick in her throat. She just nods, the reality of having it said and saying it back welling up in her. Her heart beats faster. I love you, she thinks again, but there are a million things that could go wrong with them and--fuck, fuck, fuck.

Harry presses her lips together. “I’ll go, then.”

Nick wants to tell her to stay, but she’s not that much of an asshole. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Harry twists her hair into a knot and shrugs. She smiles, and it’s fake, but it’s something. “Yeah,” she breathes. “I’ll see--bye.” She shakes her head.

She leaves.

And she’s gone.

Nick stays in her chair the rest of the afternoon, staring at the bushes, chewing her thumb nail.

God.

 

“Will you come over tonight?” Nick asks into the phone at eleven at night. She’s sitting on her bathroom floor, head resting against her cabinet.

Alexa clicks her tongue. If it were anyone else, it’d be annoying, but it’s Alexa, darling Alexa who’s never, ever judged her for anything.

“Of course, babe. Want anything?” Nick can hear rustling in the background, the sounds of Alexa getting out of her flat.

Nick loves her so fiercely it hurts, sometimes.

“Just a cuddle and maybe some vodka.”

Nick can hear the smile in Alexa’s voice when she says, “Be right there, darling.”

Nick’s flipping through Alexa’s book, and she’s reading the bit where Alexa talks about heartbreak, and she bites her lip, thinks, I don’t deserve this, and oh, well, hand touching the words. This isn’t like when Alexa broke up with Alex, this is different, Nick being an idiot because she’s never been in love before.

She pulls her legs up to her chest, chewing on her thumb the way she never did before Harry, and she stares at Puppy, carefully not thinking about anything.

 

It takes most of the night before Nick’s sleepy-drunk enough to tell Alexa what happened.

“She’s in love with me,” she whispers, face pressed against Alexa’s leg.

“Oh, honey,” Alexa whispers, because if there’s one person who gets it it’s her. “And you--”

“I didn’t say anything,” Nick breathes.

“Do you?” Alexa asks, after a pause. “Love her, I mean.”

Nick stays quiet, and then she nods. “Dunno how to, though. She’s always gone, and I--” She cuts herself off, shrugging.

Alexa keeps petting her hair.

 

Nick drafts twelve texts to Harry, all some variation of every time I think about you I think you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

She doesn’t send any of them.

 

Harry leaves, and then Harry’s gone.

Nick goes out most weekends, and she wants to text Harry, but she doesn’t know what she’d say.

She doesn’t tell anyone else what’s happened; she wants to, but she knows what they’d say, that they’d call her a twat, and she is. Alexa’s the only one that knows, still, and she texts Nick cute pictures of animals and promises of nights out.

Nick dyes her hair bright pink, again, and it looks terrible but it feels like she’s taking control.

(Finchy makes fun of her for a week, and Nick takes it all with good nature, if she says so herself.)

 

She gets a text from a number she doesn’t recognize, at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.

She’s over at Aimee’s, cooking lunch, when her phone chirps. She frowns.

you’re a twat, but we’re coming back soon.

She raises an eyebrow; she has a guess who this is, but--i’m sorry? she responds.

this is louis tomlinson, you twat.

She rolls her eyes. should’ve figured.

you have to talk to haz.

why’s that?

you’re in love with her and you won’t tell her for some probably idiotic reason.

what makes you think that?

The phone rings, and Nick begs off, holding it up to her ear. “Yes?”

“Because I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Louis says, clearly exasperated. “And--fuck, can you really say you’re not?”

Nick swallows, crossing her arms. “I’m.” She doesn’t finish.

“You’re overthinking it, probably, because you’re a twat, if I didn’t mention.” Louis groans. “It took her all this time to say anything, and--I thought you were braver than that, honestly.”

Nick chews her lip.

“She’s asleep right now. We’re gonna be back next week. Don’t talk to her unless you’re going to actually be honest with her. She deserves better.”

Nick nods. “Yeah. Okay.” Her voice is small.

“Good.” There’s an awkward pause. “I don’t hate you, by the way.”

Nick snorts. “I should hope not.”

“I am angry at you, though.”

Nick studies her fingernails. “Yeah.”

“Just treat her right, okay?” Louis asks. “She loves you so, so much. Please be good to her.”

Nick closes her eyes. Jesus. This is all too much; she’s never even considered being with someone who has a band of pop stars ready to come to her defense. “I will,” she promises.

Louis snorts. “Knew it’d be easy to get you to cave.”

Nick doesn’t say anything.

“All right. I’ve got to get going, but--please, please, just think about what I said. Okay?”

She closes her eyes. “Okay,” Nick promises, and ends the call.

She walks back into the kitchen, where Aimee’s putting the tray into the oven. “What’s wrong, love?”

Nick takes a deep breath. Really, it hasn’t been fair for her to hide it this long. “It’s about Harry,” she says, leaning against the counter.

 

(Aimee hits her with a spatula a few times, but she pulls Nick into a hard hug, whispering, “You’re an idiot, but I get it,” into her ear.

Nick has to laugh at that, ignoring the stupid tears in her eyes.

“You’re gonna get her, yeah?” Aimee asks. “No more being afraid, darling.”

Nick nods.

No more being afraid.)

 

Nick gets Louis to tell her when they’re coming back, and on what flight, and this time she wears the old t-shirt of Harry’s, the one everyone’s bound to recognize (everyone that matters, really). She pulls up outside the parking lot, and her hands are shaking when she gets out of the car.

She walks inside with a snapback on, head down. She doesn’t want anyone to recognize her; this is her and Harry’s time, no one else’s.

Harry steps out just as Nick gets up there, that same damn bag over her shoulder. Her collarbones are poking out of the top of her shirt, eyes wide and dark, mascara smudged underneath.

Nick’s heart aches for her. She pulls out her phone, dialing Harry’s number. She gets to watch the way Harry’s eyes light up before her face falls, and she swallows past the ache in her throat.

“‘lo?” Harry mumbles into the phone.

“Turn around,” Nick says, standing a few meters away.

Harry does, and when she sees Nick, the shirt, her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says, into the phone, and she puts it down, ending the call.

Nick swallows, walking toward her. “Can I take your bag?”

Harry hands it over, still clearly shocked.

Nick puts a hand on her back, leading her away from the people. Harry still hasn’t said anything.

“So I thought we’d get takeaway,” Nick says, looking over at her, quick, “and then we’d go back to mine. If you want.”

Harry frowns at her, eyes wide.

“Also, I’m in love with you,” Nick says, still not starting the car. “Madly, impossibly, and this wasn’t the place I wanted to tell you but you look like you’re about to have a heart attack.” Her heart is racing, fuck. “And I want to date you, god, properly and officially.” She bites her lip.

Harry’s quiet for a beat, two, and then she’s smiling, so wide it has to hurt. “Nick,” she breathes, and throws her arms around her.

Nick laughs, twisting as much as she can in her seat. “You’re okay with that, then?”

Harry nods, arms tight around her. “Louis said,” she whispers, “god, but I didn’t believe her.”

“She called me,” Nick says with a shrug. “She had inside information.”

Harry pulls back, frowning. “She what?”

Nick nods. “I was as surprised as you.”

Harry shakes her head, a small smile still playing at her lips.

Nick wants to explain, properly, has to tell her why it took her so long, but that can come later.

For now, she settles on resting her hand on Harry’s thigh, squeezing, and driving them to get Chinese.

 

Later, with Puppy running around her, yipping, Harry grins at Nick with her mouth full of food.

Nick leans over, kissing her, hand on her waist. “I love you,” she says, and she’s still afraid of everything, but god, this is worth it.

Harry smiles at her, barely hesitant, and kisses her back, and yeah. Definitely worth it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr at guillotineheart and twitter at doinwhatwedo :)


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